


Twenty-Eight Scars

by Lady_GothiKa



Series: Sweet & Sour - Victor Zsasz [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Everything Hurts, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Twisted soul bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 21:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17857217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_GothiKa/pseuds/Lady_GothiKa
Summary: Twenty-eight scars.You had felt them all. Each one etched into your soul had been created with anger, ferocity, an obsession that burned hot with passion, fueling an eternal flame.All, except the twenty-eighth.It almost felt intimate.It almost felt like fear.





	Twenty-Eight Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Soul bonds are normally fluffy.
> 
> This isn't.
> 
> Not even close.
> 
> Consider this your warning, cause I dunno how to tag things like this *shrugs*

 

 

 

They say from the beginning that our souls were split in two.

 

It was a curse upon us all that our essence, our being, our heart, would always be half of what we truly are. That we would remain lost, eternally searching, empty, fighting to recover our forgotten half. That perhaps maybe, just maybe, two halves will become one, complete and once again - whole.

Bound to nothing but our bodies, we struggle against ordinary existence - for the closer our essence wanders to our other half, the closer our connection becomes, and so the more we share, the more we feel and the more our souls once again become one.

It almost sounded romantic when you were younger, that one day, as absurd as it seemed that you could yearn to share; what could only be expressed as the most intimate of emotions with the one person that could understand everything you felt, connecting to your most inner thoughts, emotions, desires. They could be the one person that would simply just understand. To be one with each other.

But you were just a child then, and you learned fast just how unromantic reality could be.

 

 

 

 

The first time you felt it was in the early hours of the morning, fast asleep in bed.

It pulsated through your body, the pain that is. Harsh, deep, cutting, severing, slashing… Repeatedly, yet no harm and no blood to leave a scar. It had felt as if someone had physically cut into your left arm, with a knife perhaps, something cold and sharp.

You whimpered if the pain were true. On the surface, it as if nothing had transpired, on the inside though; your heart pounded through your chest, racing without pause. It seemed authentic. The shock. The pressure. The warm blood trickling down your fingers. The anger and the fear before the bite of the blade.

It was like all the tales had described.

...Just in all the wrong ways.

  
  


 

 

When Victor Zsasz first noticed it, he was at work of all places. The assassin quickly excused himself to find isolation within a cramped restroom at the back. His hands placed upon the sink. The man’s eyes never parting his own reflection. He watched on. Without cause, a deep emotion had forced the man to stir deep, somber… for a moment, Victor had felt things he had thought he long forgot.

A single tear rolled down his pale cheek.

 

 

 

 

You thought it would stop.

You were mistaken.

Months rolled on, moments in time, night and day, sunrise to sundown, it was all the same. Sometimes it happened in the midst of the day, a similar pain - deep - hard - cold, equal to the others, just as painful, it never became any less dull.

More than often than not, it happened at night in the small hours of the dawn.

Twenty-seven times, it happened.

Twenty-seven times, you counted religiously.

Twenty-seven times, you screamed out in shock.

Twenty-seven times, you shared someone else’s pain, their emotion, their anger, their suffering.

 

_Twenty-seven times, you cried yourself to sleep._

  
  


 

 

 

 

In a fit of rage, he punched a wall. Tears accumulating in his eyes - trapped, locked and without meaning. For months Victor had been bound to another, burdened to feel, to hold, to contain the most unwelcome emotions.

His knuckles crunched against the plaster, bloody and busted.

He felt double the impact, twice the pain. But more, he felt their agony.

It became his own.

 

 

 

 

You tried to understand.

To sympathize.

They were suffering.

So were you.

Was it so selfish to say; once in a while you thought, enough was enough? To say, truthfully and with much sincerity that this misery had gone for far too long. Perhaps, they (whoever they are) were better off without you?

Most of the time it simply a thought that flickered on in the background, like a candle clinging to life against a strong gust of air.

Yet, other times it was all too real.

Harder to avoid.

It crept up on you without explanation, without reason.

For what it was worth, it was tough to kill - a lot like yourself.

  
  


 

 

 

His book fell from his hands.

Hitting the floor with a loud clapping thud.

He felt cold, wet. The man shuddered. Submerged, gasping for air, his throat felt on fire - breathless.

It was as if his lungs had been deprived of air.

Victor fell to the floor, clutching his neck, gasping for air.

For a single moment, everything went cold - he felt empty. Completely empty.

The tear he shed was his own.

 

 

 

 

Twenty-eight scars.

You had felt them all. Each one etched into your soul had been created with anger, ferocity, an obsession that burned hot with passion, fueling an eternal flame.

All, except the twenty-eighth.

It almost felt intimate.

It almost felt like fear.

 

 

 

 

He didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t eat.

He laid in bed, restless with unease.

Puzzled and disturbed.

He quarreled with his own heart, at war, likely to surrender.

  
  


 

 

 

Numb - senseless, hollow, aching, empty.

Confused.

Your head was full of regret.

Their anguish was your pain.

Yours, theirs.

They were so close.

You felt it so clearly.

 

 

 

 

He sighed tired, slipping on a pair of headphones.

His favorite song played.

  
  


 

 

You fell asleep,

Murmuring a tune, in the morning you would no longer recall.

A song you would hear the following week, bumping shoulders with the man that lived next door.

If only you knew how close you really were.

 

 

 

 

 

`

 


End file.
